A Life Sentence
by CreamCrackers
Summary: Harry Potter, thrown into a dark and unforgiving war, fights to protect the people he loves while trying to ensure that they don't find out who he is. If they do, all will be lost and Voldemort will never die, becoming truly immortal. Harry has cast the die in a final gambit but what choice did he have? They had already lost.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Prologue

Young Harry Potter, 6 years old, was playing in the longest hallway in his ancestral home. It was full of old portraits of all the previous family heads. Harry held a small stick in his hand and was running back and forth brandishing at the portraits. He made up gibberish words that he shouted at them. They chuckled and played along, falling to the ground as if struck by a spell. Young Harry giggled and moved on to the next portrait. He liked playing with the portraits, they would always play his games and there were many of them. He had discovered this the week previously when his father had mentioned that the portraits couldn't leave the house. Young Harry had therefore determined that he should spend as much time with them as he possibly could.

The hallway in which the portraits hung was very long, a testament to the age of the House of Potter. Harry usually tired himself out before getting very far into the hallway, running back and forth between his favourite portraits, Grandfather Joseph and Great Grandmother Molly. This meant that there were many portraits that Harry hadn't played with yet. Today, he decided he would play with all the portraits, starting at the other end of the hallway. This made the most sense to the young boy in his childish logic. He would start right away, he ran down to the very bottom of the hall. The deep red carpet was soft beneath his bare feet. Harry always played barefoot in the manor, even though his mother told him not to, Harry remained firm in his belief that the carpets were made from clouds and that something so soft shouldn't be wasted by wearing shoes. His father had laughed when he first heard this and had promptly agreed with the boy, now forgoing shoes and socks when at home as well. His wife had shaken her head and muttered about, "Silly boys."

Harry reached the end of the hallway and declared that he was now, King of the Hall. The sleeping portraits were roused out of a bored slumber to the joy only a grandparent or doting aunt or uncle feels. Harry challenged his newly found dark wizard, Jeremiah Potter, who smiled as he drew his own wand and began jumping back and forth in his painting, engaging the boy in a play duel. The two ran up and down the hall, Jeremiah going from painting to painting, their occupants cheering the 'combatants' on.

Harry stopped when he saw an unusual portrait. It was small, one of the smallest in the hallway. The 6 year old approached it with interest, it was cool. The man was facing away from Harry, standing on the top of a large hill, looking down at a castle beneath him. There was also a stationary bolt of electric blue lightning streaked across the sky.

"Hello," said Harry to the man in the painting. "I'm Harry, what's your name?" The man didn't answer. Harry's eyebrows went together in confusion; mum said that you should always answer questions but this man didn't and Harry didn't know why. He tried again. The man continued o ignore him.

"He can't hear you Harry." Harry jumped, startled at his father's voice behind him.

"Why not Dad?" Harry didn't understand why the man in the portrait couldn't hear him, they were quite close together and Harry had made sure to speak clearly, mum always told him off when he mumbled.

His father smiled and bent down to his son, "Because that is not a magical portrait Harry, just a normal painting." His father sensed another why coming from Harry so he elaborated, "He never had a portrait done, but he is a very important part of the family history so, when the manor was being rebuilt and the portraits restored, it was decided that he should be included and remembered, even in this small way."

"Who is he Dad?" Harry asked eyes wide with wonder.

"Well, he is the protector of our family, he made a promise that he would always defend the Potters. When their need was greatest, he would help carry the burden. He died around two hundred years ago but there have been several sightings of him since, always when someone from House Potter needed help."

"What kind of help?"

"Proper help, the kind of help I hope you never need Harry." His father answered gravely.

Harry turned to look at the painting. The man looked like a great wizard, shrouded in a dark cloak, his wand held tightly by his side in his right hand. Harry was captivated; he wanted to be just like him when he grew up, a hero, helping his family. "What was his name?"

His father laughed at this, "It's the same as yours Harry, his name was Harry Potter too, you were named after him."

Young Harry's face broke out into a huge smile and he exclaimed, "I want to be a helper of the family too! And our names are the same so I can!" This was the boy's childish logic again, though it felt like truth to him at the time. His father laughed and would go on to forget the conversation entirely but it stuck with Harry for the rest of his life. He would strive to be the hero his name told him he could be. The barefoot Potter boys made their way to the kitchen for supper before going to bed for the night, young Harry not truly knowing his past, and not knowing what the future held.

**A/N This is just a short prologue to the story. The first chapter will take place in and around Harry's 16****th**** birthday. It will be dark and angst filled, with some teen drama on the side as well. I am hoping to achieve a gritty atmosphere. I've never really written anything like this and I have decided to do so partly as an exercise and partly from the inspiration for the story striking me. **


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